Dire : Wars (The Dire Saga Book 4)

by Andrew Seiple

  “The revolutionaries you knew in the sixties are not the revolutionaries of today. These are educated men and women, good men and true. They will keep their promises,” Paan insisted.

  “We do not have the people to spare to fight,” Gulam insisted. “The season is coming, and there is much work to do. The winds will shatter us if we ignore them.”

  “We do not have the food to spare for war,” Birin said, crossing her arms. “Or the weapons, or the bullets. The government kept us poor, and unable to revolt for a reason.”

  “Yes!” Paan burst out. “They keep us poor, they grind us under their heel! What do we have to lose?”

  “Our lives,” Gulam said.

  “Everything we own,” Birin shook her head.

  “Our souls,” Jan concluded.

  Silence again. “How?” I asked.

  Four sets of eyes turned to me. I shrugged. “Just curious. Forgive the ignorance, but how would this cost you your souls?”

  “You have heard the song of Maaya?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not all of it.”

  “There’s more?

  “Yes. I will teach you of it, later, if you wish. But for now know that it is not the time for the Chamis to fight.”

  “It’s a Quetzalcoatl myth,” Paan told me, in English. “Basically, until Maaya returns to lead us, the Chamis will lose every war.”

  “Which happened the last time we fought,” Gulam said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She shrugged it off, refusing to be placated. “But we did win. Not our fault things went bad afterward.”

  “Technically that’s winning the battle but losing the war,” I pointed out.

  “Shut up. What would you know of it?”

  “The things you just told her. The exact words you said a few seconds ago? Remember those?” I shook my head. “Whatever, look—” I switched back to Chamis, and addressed Jan. “You will not fight until Maaya returns?”

  “No. The prophecy’s held true. Every time we try, it ends badly.”

  “So when will she return?”

  The three elders looked at each other. Paan sighed, took off her spectacles, and rubbed them. “The song gets a little fuzzy on that point. She’ll appear during the darkest times of the tribes, defeat the false ruler of these islands, and unite the Chamis and the Maris. Back a few centuries ago, the Conquistadors conquered the place, and deposed the Maris. We thought their virgin Mary was Maaya by another name. So we helped them fight when the English came, and that didn’t work out well. Maris got power and became the cityfolk, Chamis got oppression. “

  “False Maaya’s worse than no Maaya, huh?” I muttered to Paan, and her lips actually twitched a bit. It looked weird, on a Chamis face. They generally didn't smile, so I guessed she’d picked up a few habits from hanging out with a university crowd. To our side, Gulam translated our words for the other two elders.

  “Essentially.” She put her spectacles back on. “But it’s a myth. We’ve let it drive us into cowardice. Ceased to be a factor. Unless and until we can stand up for ourselves without some fictional goddess’ approval, we’ll get nowhere. Nothing will change. This is an opportunity to be something. To have a hand in our own fate.”

  “Would we?” Jan asked. “What guarantee would we have that it would turn out any better than the last time?”

  “We fought hard and well, back then.” Gulam said, rubbing his arm. “We thought the rebels then our brothers. But they did not know us, once the fight was done. They turned their eyes away and pretended we were nothing.”

  “It... this time is different,” Paan protested. “Something has to give. They take more and more of your catch every year. They raise prices on the things you buy every month. They want the rest of your land, they want you... they want us gone. The government is our enemy. Why can you not see that?”

  “You think we do not?” Jan said. “But will backing a fool’s fight make them any less our enemy?”

  “Yes! No! These are not fools,” Paan protested. “They will win.”

  Birin held up a hand. “Are they good people?”

  “Yes! I mean, I suppose so. They oppose the evil that is Corazon.”

  “Well then, the smart thing is to stay neutral. If they are good people and they win, our lot will be better. If they are bad men and they lose, our lot is no worse.”

  “What!” Paan stared, slack-jawed. “How can you say such a thing!”

  Gulam shifted from foot to foot. Birin folded her arms. Jan didn’t move, eyes staring into Paan’s. After a moment the younger woman turned and stalked toward the door.

  But I stepped into her path. If she left now, she’d be blinded by an anger I knew all too well; the kind that makes you stupid and stubborn.

  She shifted to go around me, and I stuck out an arm. “Wait.”

  “Why? What are you doing, Dorothy?”

  “Telling you that you have to choose your battles.”

  “That is what I was telling them!”

  “And they are. Not every fight is yours. Not every opportunity that comes is one you should take.”

  “What would you know of it?” The sneer looked unnatural on her face. “You are soft. Pale. Weak.”

  I slapped her, and her eyes widened in shock. “You hit—”

  “Yes. Shut up. Been through things you can’t imagine. Done things you wouldn’t believe. And almost every time, going off half-cocked or with idealistic goals and no regard for the costs ended up in tragedy, for all involved. You go in with a clear head, or you don’t go at all. Is your head clear? Or will you let your anger drive you?”

  She rubbed her cheek, said nothing. Her face fell back into the stony mold shared by the other Chamis, and she did her level best to stare me down, there in the dimness of the hut. I stared back. She broke away first, and this time, when she moved to go around me I stood aside. I heard her footsteps crunch on the sand outside, then they picked up until she was practically running away. I’d pushed her, there. The kind of person she was, I knew she’d need to go and blow off steam.

  The silence in the hut lasted a few minutes. I gave it a couple more, then decided to risk offense.

  “She’s got fire in her.”

  “Yes,” Jan said. “It might devour her in the end.”

  “She thinks we do not know,” Birin snorted.

  “Know what?”

  “Nothing,” Gulam said, before the other two could speak. “You are probably wondering why we asked an American to come.”

  No, I’m wondering when the hell you’re going to be done here so I can go to sleep. “Yes,” I lied.

  “We wished you to witness this discussion,” Birin said, gesturing to her fellow elders. “To know that we will not take part in this. We are neutral, and have little either side would want. This conflict will not touch us, and we are in no danger.”

  I considered the statement. “Are you sure of that?” I leaned against the support post.

  “Yes.”

  “How long will the war go on? How many more battles and running fights? How well stocked are the rebels or hell, the Presidente’s forces? What are the odds that this place will be used as a staging ground for a cross-bay assault?” I raised my hands, let them fall. “Been in a situation like this before. Chaos, confusion, and a lot of desperate people fearful for their lives. The fight’s only what, eight, ten miles away as the crow flies?”

  Their silence spoke volumes. It was ancient Jan who broke it. “We will remain neutral. You are in no danger.”

  “Okay. Going to go tell the others that in the morning. Just saying, you might not get that choice.”

  “And what would you have us do, Dorothy?” Gulam said, looking out the window at the distant lights of the city. Half of them were gone now, whether through damage or deliberate shutdown I couldn’t say. A dark city... that brought back bad memories. I pushed them back and forged ahead.

  “Wouldn’t have you do anything. It’s your village, your tribe,
and your choice.” I shrugged. “But it might be good to have some contingency plans ready to go if your first option doesn’t work out.”

  “You think we do not?” Gulam asked. There was an edge in his voice I’d never heard before. I considered him, found his face hard and his eyes stonier than Jan’s.

  “If you do, then good. Is there anything else?”

  “For you, no.” Jan said.

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  I took my leave, weariness filling every inch of my body as I went. This fucking day would not end. I wanted to go back to bed and collapse for a week.

  But one of the perils of being a supergenius is your brain never stops working. Paan had a secret, and the elders knew it. They didn’t tell it to me. Why? What would I care?

  I spat into the sand. Damn it all, I didn’t have time for petty drama. I decided to go and find the girl, and ask her what stake she had in this mess.

  As it turned out, I didn’t even have to do that. I barely got within fifty feet of her house, when the hiss of a radio caught my attention.

  I didn’t know she had her own radio.

  I slunk closer, keeping to the trees, and I heard tapping. It was a rhythm I’d heard before, every time I checked the rebel bands on my own radio.

  So Paan had come back from the university with more than just a head full of ideas...

  We had a rebel sympathizer in our village. If, of course, she wasn’t a rebel herself.

  Made a lot of sense, given how she’d been talking, earlier. Of course she’d want to bring her people in on the fight. She had feet in both worlds, only natural to try and reconcile the two. But her people were having no part of the reconciliation.

  From what I knew of the rebel code, that was precisely the message she was relaying right now. No help from the Eastern Chamis. Maaya might come someday, but not tonight.

  And fuck it all, I was going to have a late night. I headed into the jungle, once more. With things this unsettled, I couldn’t trust the bucolic peace that I’d enjoyed up to this point. It would be a long trek back to my lair in the hills, and a longer walk back afterward, but trouble was coming, and it would not find me unprepared. Maybe if I was lucky, I’d be able to sleep late the next morning. Maybe if I was really, really lucky, this whole mess would blow over before the night was done.

  As it turned out, I wasn’t lucky at all.

  CHAPTER 4: OCCUPATION FORCE

  “If you want to really lose a war, try running one by committee.”

  --Gilgamesh, Lord of Uruk, Slayer of Humbaba, overheard chatting with a friend in a Paris cafe in 1934.

  When you’re living with a tribe who avoids post-nineteenth century technology as much as possible, the sounds of modern life are jarring. So when I heard engines coming up the old road, I was awake in an instant, and squinting out the window of my shack, into the pre-dawn light. I saw that I wasn’t the only one to hear it, as villagers rolled up the slatted curtains of their houses, and glared to the west.

  For my part I sighed, rolled over, and squashed the pillow over my head. My cheek squished against the barrel of the pistol I’d put under the pillow, and I contemplated going to sleep again. But no, it wouldn’t be good to greet whoever the hell was coming in with “Colt” stamped on my face.

  So I put on my adult face and got up, got dressed, tucked the pistol into the back of my loose pants and arranged my shirt to cover it. The contact lenses and earrings went on after that, and the forcefield generator found its way into my pocket. I’d crafted this one to look like a phone charger, one of the ones that ran off of broadcast power. Useless around here, but the sort of thing a stupid westerner tourist might carry.

  I liked being underestimated. It gave me more room to work.

  Especially if I needed the device concealed in my other pocket. A small tube, the size of a miniature flashlight, it held a lethal enough punch to level pretty much anything I pointed it at. For one shot, anyway. I doubted I would need it, short of Crusader paying a visit, but with the way my luck usually ran I couldn’t discount the possibility.

  Through the window, I saw an ancient pickup truck pull into the center of the village and grind to a stop. Ten people jumped down from it, guns ready for trouble. They looked ragged... two of them had bloody cloth wrapped over their heads, and one of them had her arm in a sling. She wasn’t moving so good, and two of the others fumbled their rifles down and helped her off the truck bed.

  None of them had uniforms. They wore basic clothes, and the only item between them that matched was their olive green kerchiefs.

  Rebels, then. No women in the governor’s army. Also, the guns were of differing makes and models, any army worth its salt would have standard issue, there. Behind the truck I caught glimpses of other vehicles moving through the trees. More trucks, a converted compact car, a couple of motorcycles... They were tearing up the sandy soil something fierce. Strangers called back and forth to each other, getting everyone arranged and offloaded.

  Well. Looked like the elders’ plan to remain neutral was up for a sound thrashing.

  I grabbed the bucket off the table, opened the door, and headed to the spring. Rebels looked at me with surprise, and one of the guys wearing actual camouflage waved at two of the gawkers.

  “Follow her. Make sure she’s safe and comes directly back.”

  “Unnecessary,” I said, raising my voice and staring at him. “It’s a simple enough path.”

  “You speak our Spanish?” He strolled over, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Young, I’d be surprised if he’d seen the high side of thirty. Curly black hair, and a clean-shaven face made for Hollywood. Attractive as hell, and he projected confidence with every step.

  His hands looked soft, to me. And while he wasn’t fat, there was a definite thickness to his midsection. I doubted he’d ever missed a meal.

  “Yes. You speak English?”

  “Of course,” he replied with unaccented ease. “Please understand I’m only worried about your protection. Corazon’s devils would likely kill you if they caught you alone.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” I said, glancing around at the rebels. A good number of them were drawing closer, listening to the conversation. A few looked me up and down, not sure what to make of this strange Americano.

  “I have seen firsthand what the pigs he calls soldiers do to women. I do not wish to risk you, señora. Please, accept our escort. I am Captain Damiano, and I swear that I mean you no harm.” He raised his voice, half-turned to look around at the houses, and the curious Chamis peering out from slatted windows. “I swear that I mean no one here any harm! You will come to no trouble from us.”

  “Then why are you here?” Rhetorical question, more of a statement. Didn't bother giving him a chance to answer, as I turned on my heel and found my way through the trees.

  Two rebels caught up with me perhaps a hundred feet later, giving me nods and falling in to either side. I kept my eyes forward and said nothing.

  Once at the spring I knelt and filled my bucket, tilting it a bit to get the sediments to settle. Hard water, true, but we’d gotten used to it after the first month. I wondered if the rebels could handle it. Hoped so, otherwise they’d be looking at a few days of the groaning shits. I debated telling them, but nah. Let them find out that little joy themselves.

  “Movement!” One of the rebels to my side shouted, and I twitched, half-rose.

  “Stay down señora!” The other one grabbed my shoulders, tried to take me to the ground. But he wasn’t expecting the corded strength in my shoulders, or for me to twist and throw him into the spring. His friend had his rifle half-raised, fingers whitening as he aimed at a rustling in the bush... and a brown face that peered through the weeds.

  “No!” I yelled, lashing out with the bucket. I caught his arm, and knocked it aside, just as he squeezed the trigger.

  CRACK!

  “Escala!” I shouted, running for the woods... and she stared back at me, shocked but unharmed, as she rose f
rom her hiding spot in the bushes. I dropped the bucket, grabbed her, keeping my body between her and the shooter. “You fucking idiot! Cease fire!” I repeated it in the Mariposan dialect, adding some choice words about his mother. When no second shot came I glared back at him, to find the rebel shaking and pale. Behind him his friend spluttered, crawled out of the spring, eyes wide and confused.

  It struck me that they probably couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, if that. Youths playing at soldiers...

  “She’s a local,” I explained.

  Shouts rose in the distance, and more strangers rushed through the trees. Drawn by the shot, I realized. I sighed, released Escala, and offered her my hand. “Come on, let’s go back to the village.” I turned my attention to the shooter. “You, asshole, here.” He dropped the gun and caught the bucket as I tossed it at his head. “Fill that and bring it back. Rápido, dumbass.”

  Pale gave way to red of flushed anger, but I turned my back and walked away. Escala shot glances back, agitated and confused.

  “Rebels,” I explained. “The ones fighting Corazon.”

  “Why are they here?” she asked.

  “Good fucking question.”

  We passed at least ten rebels on our way in, guns out, glaring into the trees, and shouting questions down to the idiots at the spring. Shouts came back, but I didn’t stop until we were standing in front of a very confused Captain Damiano. “You almost broke your word there, bucky,” I told him. “Within the first five minutes, too.”

  “I do not understand.”

  I explained the situation in short sentences with lots of swearing, watching the horror grow on his face with every word.

  “I... please accept my full apologies. We just came from the thick of the fighting. My men are jumpy, on edge.”

  “Yes, and anyone out in the jungle at this hour is going to be Chamis. This is prime hunting time,” I said, indicating the bow and quiver slung across Escala’s back. “Although they’ll have heard the engines by now, and they’ll be coming in to see what’s the matter. Maybe you could, oh, put the guns away until everyone’s accounted for?”